


Lives Lived in Parallel

by Aivix



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Autism, Childhood, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5971911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aivix/pseuds/Aivix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had always been something different about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He was three when his mother looked at him and _knew_.  
  
A mother's instincts were strange and powerful that way, and though she'd hurried him to a dozen therapists, not a one could ever tell her what it was that had structured John's interests so rigidly around planes and math.  
  
They could tell her that his IQ was a solid 145, setting him into gifted territory, however.  
  
“He's just a smart little boy,” one psychologist said, “Maybe he'll design planes one day.”  
  
Kathleen had made it home from that appointment before sitting down on John's floor to watch him play, tears in her eyes because there was still something wrong. 

* * *

For Christmas 1975, John got a stack of math books—textbooks, not workbooks—and another stack of books on Airplanes and the history of flight. They would all be filled with notations in the margins inside of a month.  
  
Dave got a staggering amount of Tinker Toys, a new bicycle, and jeans that were destroyed before Easter. 

* * *

His mother died in June of 1981: cancer had ravaged her body so badly that John could barely recognize the woman his father had taken to the hospital in April. He supposed some of that had to do the makeup the funeral home had slathered on her face, foundation and eyeshadow thickly applied despite barely hiding how sallow and pale she'd become. They couldn't do anything to replace the weight she'd lost either.  
  
She looked even more unlike herself in the stark black dress and the long string of pearls wind up around her throat; only the rosary wrapped in her hands seemed right. He'd even offered to go home with Dave, find her favorite outfit of jeans and silk shirt, and bring it back, but his father's face had pinched and Patrick had muttered, “No, John,” in a tone that brooked no argument.  
  
Still, he brought it up with Dave.  
  
“She's dead. What does it matter what clothes they put her body in?” Dave had harshly whispered back. His eyes were red-rimmed and angry. “Don't be stupid, John.”  
  
_Don't be stupid, John._  
  
Was he being stupid?  
  
He wasn't sure. It seemed like the logical thing: Mom never wore uncomfortable clothes if she could get away with the clothes that let her play out on the driveway with John, both of them chalking numbers and plane designs into the asphalt.  
  
He spent the rest of the wake in silence.  
  
People patted him on the shoulder now and then while telling him, “Good strong boy.” 

* * *

His relationship with his father had always been strained, awkward, hard to maintain. Like a plane trying to take off in a tailwind, their conversations were always turbulent and it was difficult to stick the landing.  
  
They were a family for a little while after Kathleen died, but once Dave left for college, John and Patrick were simply two people living in the same house: John would go to school in the morning a few minutes before Patrick left for the office, then he would get home around five after football or golf practice and eat a dinner prepared by the cook, do homework, and head to bed around 10. Patrick would work most days until 7 or 8 and when he got home, would close himself into his office until long after John was abed.  
  
It was easy for their bond to erode further when neither said much to the other, which was probably why they both reacted with such anger upon John's high school graduation.  
  
“I'm going to Stanford.”  
  
“No, you'll go to Harvard.”  
  
“They don't have an aeronautics program!”  
  
“They have mathematics.”  
  
John had exploded, throwing punches and kicking and Patrick had taken most of it; his father had ultimately managed to get John's wrists in his hands and yanked them down until he had John in a full body hug.  
  
“Okay, okay. Stanford.”  
  
It was the last moment in his life that John could remember feeling like his father understood him. 

* * *

Stanford gave him the mechanical knowledge, but without his father's money to hie him along, John graduated into adult life with a shitty retail job, an equally shitty used car, and no idea where he was headed. He lived on ramen for a little while and hunted the help wanteds, even showed up at a Lockheed office.  
  
“Look, kid,” the secretary had told him sweetly, “they never hire newbies—they want experience. Have you ever even flown?”  
  
John had gone straight to the library to look up flight schools and airfields, but a theme kept coming up again and again.  
  
Which was probably how he wound up at the Air Force recruiting office, staring at each of the models set on top of filing cabinets and desks.  
  
“Like planes, son?”  
  
“Love them, sir.”  
  
“Well, you sign up with us and I betcha you'll make an excellent pilot.”  
  
John signed up right then and there. 

* * *

The military had _rules_ and structure like he hadn't had since his mother died. It was a blessing in disguise and John savored every minute of his training. He threw himself into learning whatever he could and not a soul teased him for reading math textbooks and journals on airplane design: he was a pilot and a damn good one at that.  
  
He learned to fly anything with wings and when he ran out of those, he learned to fly helicopters with increasing fervency. He rode the high of hearing his friends tell him to stop showing off whenever he mastered another, and grinned stupidly with every fast-track promotion.  
  
Then there was Afghanistan and it all came crashing down on his head.  |  Rodney turned two on his own: his mother had gone off with her latest fling and his father was working. He and his babysitter were home alone, the girl locking Rodney up in the living room with the baby gates; a few toys scattered the floor—blocks—and he spent a while stacking and moving them.  
  
With the cords from the lamp and some photo frames, he made a tower structure out of them when he was no longer amused by the blocks themselves and then fashioned a dozen turrets out of knickknacks.  
  
The babysitter didn't even notice. She was too busy on the kitchen phone.  
  
He thought about tearing down his creation. Maybe some tears to get her attention, but as he turned to swipe at the tower he saw the piano bench and a new idea rose up in his mind. 

* * *

As usual, Jeannie's birthday overrode the holiday and Rodney spent Christmas Eve tucked away in his room after his third temper tantrum.  
  
He looked up at the drawing on his wall, the big blue circle fitted inside a great circle ring. Something in his brain slotted something into place and he started to scrawl long lines of intricate math into his favorite notebook. 

* * *

He didn't feel the need to grieve his mother's loss two months after his thirteenth birthday: despite having given him life, she'd thrown him to the wayside in favor of either her flavor of the week or Jeannie. She'd ignored most of his accomplishments and screamed at him to shut up when he tried to practice at the piano—he'd often interrupted her hangovers.  
  
No, he wouldn't miss her neglect, nor her insults.  
  
The verbal abuse had gotten worse as he'd aged, pushing past his peers in every academic way; she'd called him broken, a freak, about his lack of friends, but the reality was that he didn't need any. He had bigger things, more important things to do in his life and friends would merely get in the way. And she'd called him a faggot when he'd failed to start dating the same time as his cousins.  
  
He certainly would not miss the beatings he'd taken from her hand whenever he'd been unable to control his outbursts: she never understood that he couldn't stop the explosion. He was just too... full... too stressed, and he needed to meltdown before his mind went nova and _hurt_. She'd ignored his futile attempts to explain, too, and slapped him across the face for calling her stupid.  
  
Rodney spent the wake and the funeral at the table with the finger sandwiches while Jeannie and their father greeted guests and spoke of all the nice things that society dictated be said.  
  
(When the priest came to offer his condolences, Rodney just huffed and walked away and people muttered, “Poor Meredith, he must be so angry about the accident.”  
  
He wished he could correct them: he was so very thankful for that drunk driver.) 

* * *

Life after his mother's death was a strange amalgamation of hate and love:  
  
He wanted to continue with piano, but Mrs. Evans had told him in a voice sweet as pie that he was only clinically proficient.  
  
“Music needs depth and feeling. It needs _soul_ , Meredith.” She'd patted him softly on the shoulder and kissed his temple, maybe trying to be motherly or maybe not—he never understood the woman—and then added, “Maybe when you're a little older, you'll find the spark you need.”  
  
He set the piano on fire after she left and nearly burned down the house. They spent three weeks in a hotel thereafter, William McKay staring at Rodney whenever he thought he son wasn't looking, and by the time the repairs were finished and they could go home, he seemed to have come to a decision.  
  
He introduced Rodney to advanced sciences on a Tuesday and by Friday, William knew his son had been wasted on all those years of piano lessons. God, but Rodney ate up the numbers and the equations. He could look at a week's worth of work and spot the error within seconds, sending more than one of William's colleagues into fits of tears.  
  
Physics textbooks began to clutter the living room tables; books on string theory and wormholes overtook his mother's harlequin romances on the bookcases, the latter finding themselves in donation boxes right before Rodney left for college.  
  
He certainly wouldn't allow his little sister's mind to be poisoned by that drivel.  
  
No, he and Jeannie were meant for far greater things and he would see to it that she stayed on the right track. 

* * *

Northwestern was terrifying.  
  
There were no rules, no order—if the students wanted to go out on a Tuesday night and drink, then they could—and it took a solid six-weeks before Rodney got through a day without spending a ludicrous amount of time in the bathroom repeatedly washing his hands. Even then, his roommate still moved out with the RA's and RD's approval; not a single kid on his floor dared to talk to him.  
  
He was unbearably glad when he finally completed his graduation requirements, sitting at his dorm desk with the paper before him to decline a cap and gown, decline to walk in the ceremony. He didn't need that pomp and circumstance, not now, when he could take his degree and _go_. Go somewhere that appreciated even his rudimentary work.  
  
It was a relief to sign the form, writing M. Rodney McKay onto a line beneath it, before reaching into the manila envelope for the stack of papers the courier had brought him a few days before.  
  
A neatly typed proposal for work and pay, a contract, and a set of NDAs were marked with post-it flags; empty signature slots were highlighted in neon yellow and Rodney set to filling in each one. 

* * *

He'd gone from government agency to government agency while earning his first doctorate and then his second, finding himself (at last) at the SGC. Area 51 was a playground of exploration and there were even a few minds that were close to his own.  
  
Not terribly close, mind you, but there was potential.  
  
And oh, the work he could put to use... the Stargate was everything his father used to dream of and Rodney loved it. He ate up everything about it, becoming an expert in the technology within months, and working on improving every facet of the Gate from power consumption to dialing.  
  
That knowledge would prove to be a curse and a benefit.  
---|---


	2. Chapter 2

It started in Antarctica: Rodney followed John around like a vicious lost puppy, telling him to sit, stand, and touch on command. John hadn't been sure if that was because O'Neill hadn't been able to get the devices working or because Rodney couldn't order the General around.

They were only at the SGC a few hours before shipping out, but it still continued there with Rodney snarking and John smirking, and then into Atlantis.

Where their flirting went on for years.

Gifts were regularly exchanged: John brought Rodney coffee with a handful of sugar packets, Rodney brought John the last of the chocolate pudding, John brought Rodney the latest season of Doctor Who, Rodney brought John a copy of Miller's The Dark Knight Returns. Gifts given to and from, things they either had shipped on the _Daedalus_ or traded for at the markets.

(“Hey, you think Rodney would like these?” he'd asked Zelenka one afternoon, crammed into the mess hall while the rain beat against the windows. The Toys R Us catalog had been making the rounds and it was John's turn to stare at the listings despite not having any children back home he needed to send Christmas gifts. “They don't have blue.”

Radek just gave him a fond look after glancing at the remote controlled cars that had John excited. “I think Rodney would like them fine.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”)

Infirmary stays were never lonely: John fell down a ravine and broke his arm, Rodney bitched in the morning about the uncomfortable chair he'd spent the night in. Rodney nearly drowned in a society's ritual sacrifice and John crawled into the next bed, listening to the steady, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor. John went off on his latest suicide mission and returned to find Rodney already passed out in John's desk chair.

(“Hey, buddy,” John always coaxed, “Let's go to your room.”

And Rodney would push himself up with a groan. “Yes, of course. Yes. Bring beer.”)

They protected each other: John insisted on Rodney learning to handle every weapon they had in the armory, Rodney insisted on John learning how to read Ancient. John taught Rodney defensive maneuvers in the puddlejumper, Rodney taught John how to activate and deactivate ancient door locks through the controls. John set up sparring sessions with Ronon for Rodney, Rodney set up teaching sessions with Radek for John.

(“I really don't think I need to know how the operating system works.”

“And the next time there's a malfunction and you're the only one near a laptop who just so happens to have my command code?”

John sighed.)

Flirting in so many ways over so many years, until the day when Atlantis was reset in Pegasus after her visit to Earth. Flying in twelve hour stretches had worn John down, leaving him feeling raw and exhausted; Carson had frowned at the expression in John's eyes when he'd come in to take over the control chair for landing.

“I can take her in.”

Sheppard had growled, “I'm fine.”

Carson had quietly stepped away, seeing how very close John was at that moment to a meltdown and remained in the room until the city was safely back down on the water of New Lantea; he ushered John out once Rodney's own shaky voice had declared, “And we're back home,” over the PA.

John had barely made it to his quarters—the new one with an actual bedroom and kitchen and a bathroom with actual room to move—before he was clicking his fingers and struggling to get out of his jacket, and Carson tried to help but John wasn't having it at that moment and Carson was certainly not going to push. Instead, he stepped into the hall and radioed Rodney.

“And what makes you think I'd be able to help?”

“Because you love him.”

Rodney's eyes went large. “I...”

Carson didn't let him get going. “Rodney, there are many forms of love. Family, friends, romantic partners, it's all love.”

“Oh.” Rodney swallowed. “And you think he loves me too?”

“I know he does.”

“Okay. Um...” he turned to John's door, glancing at the door mechanism then back at Carson before nodding resolutely and flicking his hand over the crystals.

(Carson smiled to himself: the two men had danced so beautifully around each other, but it still came as no surprise that John had pre-programmed his door lock to admit Rodney.)

John wasn't in the main living space or his bedroom.

No, John was crouched in his shower, the water pouring over his hair and his BDUs. His fingers were still moving, but he was still, pressed up against the shower seat with his eyes closed and his head down.

Rodney knelt down beside him, poised just enough above the floor to keep the water from soaking into his knees, and gently said, “Hey.”

Slowly John turned his head, facing himself away from the shower wall. “Rodney.”

“You, um, you wanna get out now?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay. You want me to do anything? Help you lose the boots, maybe?”

“No. I'm okay for now.”

So Rodney sat back, giving John minutes then half an hour. An alert for water overuse—Atlantis' classic high whine—pushed Rodney to strip himself down to his undershirt, boxers, and socks, and step into the spray; he turned off the stupid alarm because really, there was an ocean outside and they weren't exactly about to drain it with one very long shower. As his boxers began to stick to his thighs, Rodney got down on his haunches behind John and reached for the buttons of his jacket, the ties of the soaked boots, the button and the zip of the pants.

Loosening everything seemed to prod John toward relaxing some, and he murmured an agreement when Rodney asked, “Okay?”

It was almost like undressing one of the dolls Jeannie'd had when they were kids, with the articulated joints and the long skinny arms: John allowed Rodney to push him around, stripping him of the sodden clothing and piling it to his left until there was only John's black undershirt and boxer briefs remaining.

“That better?”

John nodded slowly, both hands finally winding down to a stop; he took a few more minutes under the pound of the water, then cleared his throat and said, “I'm ready to get out.”

There was several long moments while they both skittered around, trading the last of their clothing for warm, dry towels and passing each other the ibuprofen bottle. John scrounged up a shirt and a pair of sweats for Rodney and the two of them dressed, settling onto John's bed after some dithering.

Wet hair flapping around as he rubbed at his face, John didn't even see the hand that Rodney stretched toward him, until his pinkie brushed along John's, and there was a hint of the Sheppard smirk on his lips. He clasped his hand in Rodney's after a minute, letting his bitten down fingernails scraped over the delicate skin before stroking the pads of his fingers along the creases of Rodney's fingers.

“I'm sorry about,” John nodded toward the bathroom a while later, “that.”

He had yet to let go of Rodney's hand, their fingers tangled together and his thumb rubbing over Rodney's knuckles.

Rodney rolled his eyes. “Please, like you haven't seen me have a meltdown before.”

John didn't know how to respond to that: yes, he had seen Rodney have an outburst—many times in fact—but it wasn't like Rodney was... like him. _Wrong_ , stupid. He swallowed as the old, bitter thoughts came back, every therapist he'd seen as kid ringing out in his head.

As if reading his mind, Rodney tugged on their joined hands and told him, “You do realize that it's both of us, right? We're both different.”

“What?”

“The autism thing. I mean a lot of the first wave expedition team had sensory processing disorders or OCD or something, but I think we're the only ones with autism.”

“I don't know what that is, Rodney.” Years of evals and psychologists and John swore he'd never heard anyone use that word before.

“Seriously? No one ever told you?” At John's head shake, Rodney told him, “I'll get Carson to explain it.”

“And you're sure it's both of us?”

“Very sure.”

“Oh.”

John twisted his hand a little, thumb still working over Rodney's knuckles, and he swallowed around the idea that someone else was _wrong_ like him. That the someone else was _Rodney_... it was a heady, comforting thought.

“They won't need us in Ops for a while—is it all right if I nap here?” Rodney asked, looking so hopeful that John nodded immediately, and they both shifted and turned until they were down on their sides, a pillow stuffed between their chests.

Their hands fell back together, fingers twining together, and John fell asleep with the touch of a smile on his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Here I was just perusing tumblr when [this jumps out](http://gatersgonewild.tumblr.com/post/138027460787/okay-so-i-firmly-believe-that-john-sheppard-is) at me: _Okay, so, I firmly believe that John Sheppard is on the autism spectrum, but like, a fic where both John and Rodney are autistic, and so they’re both kind of idiots when it comes to other people, and so neither of them know the other has been flirting with them for years now, or maybe they’re having trouble flirting in a traditional enough manor that the other one gets it, and just, cute autistic babies being stupidly adorable._
> 
> And then this fic happened. In 8 hours.


End file.
